The Curtain Rises
Twenty-Sixth Day of the Second Month 293 AC
Daenerys Targaryen was no stranger to revelation. For half her admittedly short life she had been tumbling from one to the next, reaching into the fire to grasp burning embers, learning from illumination and pain both. But understanding did not have to come thus, in flashes of some grand truth... sometimes the last piece slid in quietly and without fanfare.
She remembered searching, she remembered planning and peering into the future that was now her present, she remembered the voices of elder wyrms, the future reflected in burnished scales a thousand thousand times over, each subtly more different than the last. This time, however, she did not seek an answer amid the tangled lore. Thus did she look upon herself through lens of memories taken and restored, thus did she understand as much as any mortal being the imperishable shades that clung to the dreams of Dragonkind. They were its weft and weave... only a thought away.
"Oh..." she breathed, wings stirring the still air of the war-room.
"Didn't taste that bad," Vee called with a smile. She had swallowed the faintly glowing granules with not even a twitch.
"It's not that," the princess explained. Looking around the chamber recalling the presence then of the crow-headed archon, and even Wyla, the glamour that granted her the guise of a living woman doing nothing to hide the sharp and calculating interest in her dark eye. Meeting Viserys' worried gaze she shook her head ever so slightly and whispered upon a conjured breeze: "Later."
The final reports of Tyrosh were cautiously optimistic. False ravens which had flown high above the city, as well as Lys and Myr to keep up the ruse, reported neither fire, rioting nor any sort of shift in the military situation. While it was always remotely possible the commander of the Second Sons had been slain by his treacherous underling and his new fiendish 'allies,' it seemed unlikely given that the Sellswords' camp had not seen any sort of clear upheaval itself. Only one small change needed to be made to the plan now that Dany could recall it.
"I'm coming with you to speak to the sellswords," she declared. "You need a proper healer, just in case it should come to a fight, and I would not have anything better to do regardless." Turning to Yrael with an apologetic smile she added, "No offense to your own powers, holy one, but I can be somewhat more inconspicuous in such matters."
No one raised any objection to her addition, though her mother looked like she dearly would have wished to do so. Walking over to her the girl offered a brief but fierce hug and whispered, "We'll all be fine, I promise." Daenerys knew too well the gnawing worry of being left behind. She vowed to help all she could in the months ahead to kindle the gift of sorcery as Viserys had done in the Scholarum.
***
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
The camp of the Second Sons was neatly ordered, not from any particular overarching plan but through the simple wear of time and experience. The sentries all stood far enough from fires and braziers so as not to ruin their night-sight in spite of the fitful rain blowing in from the sea.
Against any common foe their vigilance would have served them well, Daenerys knew, but theirs was no such company, shrouded in glamours and arriving on soft and silent wings to stand directly before the commander's pavilion. As old as the company it seemed, having obviously seen many a campaign, the once purple dye having faded to a splotchy uneven blue.
"Should have slept under a proper roof," Ser Richard snorted softly at the sight.
"He is making a point I think, that he will allow his men to slumber under Tyroshi roofs for their comfort, but he does not need them and will not be beholden to them," Viserys replied thoughtfully, obviously messuring what manner of man they would have to face this night, hopefully not as a foe, but a newfound ally.
The knight nodded in understanding but not, the girl suspected, approval, for he had never been one for gestures getting in the way of practicality. Then his eyes narrowed. "Ward," he motions to pavilion's threshold.
"Does it go all the way around?" Viserys asked.
On hearing it did not he simply stepped around to the side and silently cut a path through the cracked canvas, mending it with sorcery once all three of them had passed. Thus they found themselves at last before the sleeping figure of Gorgious the Generous, captain of the Second Sons...
Alas there is a final complication, one that has Daenerys biting back a giggle. The man does not sleep alone.
OOC: The next vote is waking up and explaining the situation to the commander.
